


and it's all in how you mix the two

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Category: NSYNC
Genre: First Time, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-18
Updated: 2006-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/juc_day/">JuC Day 2006</a>. Not true, never happened, especially since, hi, future fic. Title from the Used's <i>Blue and Yellow</i>. No copyright infringement intended. Thanks to C and M for dealing with the non-stop, month-long freak-out on this one and extra thanks to Megan for reading on the fly with no warning at all.</p>
    </blockquote>





	and it's all in how you mix the two

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [JuC Day 2006](http://community.livejournal.com/juc_day/). Not true, never happened, especially since, hi, future fic. Title from the Used's _Blue and Yellow_. No copyright infringement intended. Thanks to C and M for dealing with the non-stop, month-long freak-out on this one and extra thanks to Megan for reading on the fly with no warning at all.

It takes Joey losing patience and throwing a bottle of Corona against the wall of the recording studio to make them get their shit together. In the sudden silence after the bottle explodes from the force of the throw, Justin hears the hiss and pop of the beer foaming in puddles on the floor.

"None of us need to do this album," Joey says, every word clipped. "We can at least agree about that. And I'm sure as fuck not doing it like this."

He looks at each one of them before he leaves, saying, "I'm going home and thinking long and hard about whether I'm coming back tomorrow and I'd appreciate it if the rest of you figured out whether you want to be here by then, too."

Justin walks out quietly, not speaking to anyone, not really even meeting anyone's eyes and drives aimlessly for hours before making himself take the turns for home. Later, he remembers being vaguely surprised that Cameron's cars are still there and thinking that for once he'll be around while she is.

It doesn't matter, of course; neither of them can do anything right by now. And it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know him being home has nothing to do with wanting to be with her.

She half-ignores him while she chats with her mother and sisters, wandering from room to room on the wireless headset, but it's nothing more than the usual build-up in what's become a too familiar pattern. Halfway through the first round of petty sniping, he hears himself repeating Joey's words, "We don't need to do this."

She looks at him for a long time before she pulls a sweater on and brushes past him on her way out. "No," she says. "We don't."

He finds an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and sits watching the city lights through the night before he showers and dresses, leaving as the sun rises. He has meetings and appointments and he keeps each one of them, until the only thing left is the time blocked out for recording.

He's early, but when he walks into the studio, everyone else is there. Before he asks, before he knows what anyone else thinks, he says, "I'm in."

Joey nods and Lance laughs, low and real, not the bored LA cliche. Chris just says, "Five," while JC adds, "And we're starting over," and something finally feels right again.

***

Lance knows before Justin manages to call home and tell his family. Part of the delay is honest, comes from the blazing groove they've found in the studio and the tracks they're laying down at an insane rate, but Justin isn't self-deluded enough to believe that's all there is to it. He knows how much he hates having to admit he's failed, especially at something he'd felt so confidently was right for him, but that doesn't make him call any faster.

Finally, he steals some time from a break in mixing and calls from the service entrance and loading dock in the back. His mom's quiet; Paul's thoughtful. Neither one are surprised, which doesn't say much for his acting skills. Then again, it's been a long time since he's cared enough to put up much of a front. Lance is waiting for him when he walks back into the studio.

"Dinner, tonight," he says, and it isn't a question so much as a royal command.

"Oh, uh, hey, thanks, but--"

"Dinner, tonight," Lance repeats. "Don't try to tell me you're staying here again. C has a thing, Chris isn't about to miss the football game, Kelly's getting that look and let's not even pretend the two of us are going to bond over the soundboard." He pauses until Justin takes a breath to reply and then adds, "And no, I'm not buying the "quiet night at home" excuse either."

Justin hates being handled, but Lance meets his glare head on. "C put you up to this, didn't he?"

"Maybe." Lance shrugs. "Doesn't matter though."

Justin sighs. "Can I go home and shower?"

"Do I look like I'm stupid enough to fall for that?"

"Fine," Justin mutters. "Whatever."

He puts it out of his mind and concentrates on getting the vocals mixed right. Compartmentalizing is his specialty these days, he thinks. Ask anyone.

Lance walks out with him and settles himself in the passenger seat of the Porsche.

"Just making sure you don't get lost," he says, in response to Justin's raised eyebrows. Justin wants to ask what'll happen to Lance's car, but isn't about to give Lance the satisfaction of engaging. He shifts out of neutral with a little more torque than is necessary, but Lance doesn't say anything, and the trip out to Malibu is almost enjoyable.

Jeffrey meets them at the door, tanned and smiling, his hair completely white, but still short and spiky and fashionable. Justin swallows an unexpected stab of loss as he watches them kiss, Jeffrey laughing as Lance half-trips over the dogs, bending down to pet and hush them before turning to Justin and wrapping him up in a hug.

"You," he says, patting Justin's cheek. "You have been a stranger for entirely too long." He sweeps them inside, dogs and all, shooing them down the hall and saying, "I'm all set up in the study."

"Because Lord knows we can't waste the chance to eat in front of the fire. It's only _seventy_ out there now," Lance murmurs, rolling his eyes. Justin laughs at the exasperation, but he doesn't see any difference between how Lance looks at Jeffrey now and how he'd looked at him three years earlier. There's a picture of them in the study, taken right after the minister had pronounced the final blessing, the two of them barefoot and sandy, ankle deep in the Maui surf, holding hands and laughing at each other.

Lance catches him studying it. "It was a good day," Justin says.

"It was a good start," Lance answers, and Justin can't help the way his thumb rubs over his ring finger, right where the gold band isn't. Lance catches him doing that, too.

"I guess ours wasn't," Justin says, and it's maybe a little easier to say the words again, but they still leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Jeff's been hearing things," Lance says, nodding. "You know how he is." Justin does know; Jeffrey knows everyone who knows anything and they all call him to share. Before Lance can say more though, Jeffrey's back, his cart full of platters and bowls, and Justin's happy enough to let his dinner production begin and not think about having to let go of a lot of things that he'd thought were settled in his life.

***

Justin isn't sure if Cameron insists on using a retired judge because she wants to keep things private; or because it's what you do in LA when there's a divorce. She can't bear being out of fashion, especially not when Jessica Simpson--Justin can almost hear the sneer in his head--is in the loop.

Either way, he doesn't care. Anything that keeps even one photographer out of his face is okay by him. The pre-nups are rock solid; they--thankfully--had never been able to get pregnant; and they've already sold the house they'd bought together. Except for the part where things routinely dissolve into screaming matches if they're alone for more than ten minutes, it's a very civilized divorce.

Getting across freeways and traffic from the final adjudication to the rehearsal space is less civilized, but Justin's only an hour late, and since they all spent the lost time conferenced in to a marketing meeting with the label, he hasn't missed much of anything.

As soon as he walks in, they start on the first set of arrangements with the band and he lets the familiar stop-start-stop-restart rhythm of a rehearsal wear the edge off the morning's disappointments. By the time they break for the day, ten hours later, with three songs done, he's ready to sleep right where he's lying, even with the stripped-down production they're going with.

Chris nudges him in the ribs with his foot, tilting a bottle of water over his face. Moving isn't a realistic option; he just opens his mouth and what he can't catch splashes, cold and wet and awesome, over his face and chest and he couldn't care less that Chris is laughing down at him.

"It wouldn't matter that you'd gone all Hollywood candy-ass on us if you weren't such a competitive moron." Chris sits down on the floor, leaning back on his elbows and handing the bottle to Justin. "Since we're locked in to this stupid tour idea--"

Justin stops gulping water long enough to snort, because all standard bitching and moaning aside, Chris is as psyched as anyone to be back out on the road together, not solo.

"--I'd appreciate you not going into cardiac arrest before we get started and trying to keep up with Chasez is going to put you down, man."

"Just need a couple of days to get back into it," Justin insists, but has to admit it'd sound better if he wasn't wheezing.

JC flops down next to them. "You should come work out with me," he says, putting his head down on his knees. Justin decides that he must have really had a few bones removed because no one should be that flexible at his age. "I've got this trainer who comes out to the house every morning and--"

Chris laughs. "Oh, baby, that is one stone-cold bitch there. She'll whip your skinny ass into shape so fast you won't know what hit you."

"Yeah?" Justin eyes Chris, who, granted, hasn't been running flat out, because yeah, Chris and rehearsals still aren't best friends, but who's in an annoyingly good mood for a day spent in rehearsals. "You working with her, too?"

JC snickers and Chris looks smug, but before Justin can figure out what's going on, Joey and Lance are back with a case of cheap, disgusting beer and a tacky-as-hell birthday cake. Justin's forgotten, but when he digs his phone out, there are messages from his mom and brothers and when he talks to them, he assures them that he's celebrating his thirtieth in style. Pizza and beer and a divorce and a rehearsal _are_ a style, he decides, maybe not the one everyone's expecting, but it's working out just fine.

Somewhere in the middle of the beer- and sugar-induced high, compounded by his general exhaustion, he and JC decide that the logical thing to do is to add a half-hour to JC's personal trainer session and share the appointment.

It doesn't make nearly as much sense the next morning, but Justin dutifully drags himself out of bed when JC calls and manages to drive the short distance to JC's place without damage to himself, his car, or anything unfortunate enough to cross his path.

JC always has people crashing with him; Justin shouldn't be surprised by the woman peeling an orange at the sink but he's still not fully awake so he jumps a little when she first says, "Who are you?"

Justin blinks at her--short and fair, with a thick, reddish braid half-way down her back and full sleeves on both impressively cut arms--and manages to introduce himself without sounding like too much of an idiot. He doesn't _think_ JC's fucking the trainer--Chris would have been all over that shit--but it's C, so you never know and there's no sense accidentally pissing off someone who you're about to pay to hurt you.

"Kate," she replies, and sets the orange on a paper towel. Justin knows her from somewhere, but then, he knows a lot of people. She sits down on one of the high stools around the center island to lace up her shoes and even half-asleep, Justin's brain tells him that they're the latest Nike pro line, the fully customizable ones and that the running bra and tights she's wearing are probably the same.

"C said someone was coming by, but he kind of forgot to mention who or when. Glad I got dressed before I came downstairs."

Justin grins. "Yeah, that's our boy; always a little vague on the details."

"There's coffee," she continues, standing up and leaning against the bar to stretch her hamstrings. "But I made it and some people have hissy fits about it."

"Only because it eats my spoons," JC says, wandering in wearing a pair of track pants Justin recognizes from at least three tours ago and nothing else. Kate flips him off and he blows her a kiss as she walks out the door. "Have a nice run, honey."

Justin picks up the coffee pot, sniffing cautiously. "How do I know her?"

"She kicked your ass all over Ajax in that pro-am snowboarding exhibition last year," Chris says, walking into the kitchen and taking the coffee away from Justin. "You know she's gonna scare the shit out of your nice Hollywood Hills neighbors, right, C?"

"Dude, please. I'm looking forward to the reactions at the next homeowner's meeting," JC answers, laughing as he opens the refrigerator and stares inside.

"Yeah, Kate Cranston. Yeah." It hadn't been the best day Justin had ever spent in Aspen but that had less to do with the actual snowboarding and more to do with whatever he'd done wrong by Cameron that time. He turns back to where JC's rooting through the refrigerator.

"Since when have you gone for the Winter Olympic-types, C? I thought you were all about the eternal rhythms of the ocean."

"Alive," Chris says, pouring coffee down the drain and starting a fresh pot brewing. "That's his type these days."

"Hey," JC says mildly, emerging from his refrigerator exploration balancing cream cheese, smoked salmon, and the nasty-ass hot pepper jelly Chris is addicted to. "I like to think I'm not locked into anything superficial like a type. I'm open to all possibilities." He shrugs. "But you're looking at the wrong man, J."

Chris is tossing the peeled orange from hand to hand and not even trying not to smirk as Justin spins back around. "Fuck," Justin says. "No wonder you don't need Cruella deVil."

***

Leno is completely grey now, but the Tonight Show is still the Tonight Show, and the one condition Chris has put on the full PR blitz that Arista wants them doing is that they won't do Letterman, no matter what. Lance had smiled and said it was good to know Chris still could carry a grudge, and that was that.

The performance is good; not great, but solid. Justin can see JC catching all the bits that are off, like he always does. As they're stripping off mikes and walking over to the couches, he leans over to say quietly, "They're gonna give us a copy of the show; we can check it out later."

JC nods absentmindedly, murmuring, "We're rushing it when we come out of the bridge," but then the producer cues them back.

"So," Jay's saying. "First time together in seven? Eight years? How's it feel?"

Lance takes that one, with Joey chiming in on the side, and Justin can lean back on the couch and laugh at Joey's description of how their bus requirements have changed since the last tour. Chris throws in a mention of wheelchair lifts and he and Jay are off on blitz of one-liners that takes up almost all their time.

It's not until the very end that Jay adds, "Now, you guys wrote this album--"

"Produced it, too," Justin makes sure to say, and Jay nods, holding up the CD to the camera. JC is there with a description of the artwork they used on the cover and how they all thought that would be easier than another photo session but turned into a raging debate that ended with a literal coin flip and that takes care of the rest of the time. The first actual live performance is a wrap and once again, Justin is amazed at how smoothly it's been to pick things back up.

***

The final days of rehearsals are chaos, though; worse than any of them can remember. They can't get through a song, much less a set, without a major issue erupting, everything from the stage construction to the sound system to costumes not even close to fitting. Nothing's right and when the assistant tour manager makes one too many chirpy comments about working the kinks out before it really matters, it's Chris who half takes her head off but Justin sees the nerves on everyone's face.

His house is too new to feel like home. It's quiet and neat, like he likes it; his housekeeper's on the job with a vengeance. His mom had come through and dealt with the movers and made sure the decorators didn't go insane, but it still feels like living in a hotel. He'd stopped her before she got to the personal stuff; the mudroom is packed with boxes, the stuff that Cam's assistant had shipped to him mixed in with his own, mute reminders of failure every time he walks in and out of the breezeway to the garages.

In the end, he doesn't bother to pack for the tour, just grabs music and his guitar. He can get anything he needs on the road.

They make it through the first couple of shows in spite of themselves, Justin thinks, relying on sheer determination, plus the hard-learned ability to roll with anything going wrong onstage and still finish with the band.

MTV is there, cameras everywhere, but they don't have bus access, and that's where stuff gets worked out. It's an easy routine to fall into--shower on their own buses and then switch over to JC's and go through everything from the timing of their entrance to the set-list to who generally gets to talk when.

On the tenth show, everything finally clicks. Stage and crew and band and _everything_ that hasn't been working, hasn't been right, finally is and Justin loses himself in the rush, in the joy. Even better, when he looks around, he's not the only one. Chris is sky-high right next to him; Joey and Lance are snapping and glowing with a deep burning intensity; and JC is a million miles past them all.

It lasts forever and it's over too soon, and they all end up on JC's bus again, no post-mortems this time, only energy and excitement and an unwillingness to let it all go. One by one, though, Lance and Joey and Chris come down and slip away, changing buses at rest stops and gas breaks, until it's only Justin and JC who can't fit in their skin, can't stop the adrenaline still simmering through their blood so that they can't stay still for more than a minute, no matter how late it is, how tired they are.

It's easier to shower there, to borrow sweatpants and a T-shirt and empty JC's refrigerator, spreading the small plastic tubs from the tour caterer across the counters and tables, eating two bites of pasta, then three of grilled chicken and washing it all down with tea sweet enough to make their teeth ache, and finally winding down enough to crash out in front of the satellite TV in the stateroom.

Even then though, even after they can't find anything to hold their attention and JC kills the lights, Justin can't sleep, can't even find a comfortable way to lie. Side, back, stomach--it doesn't matter; he's twitching and jittery in minutes.

"J," JC sighs.

"Sorry, sorry," Justin mumbles. "Too fucking wired to sleep."

He's about to offer to go sleep in the lounge when JC says, clear and sharp, "The shower's free."

"Nice," Justin snaps. "Classy."

"Whatever," JC snaps back. "It's not like I didn't spend your entire fucking adolescence on the same bus with you, not listening. Just, do something, I don't care what, so you stop flopping around and we can get some sleep before we have to get off the damn bus and start the whole thing over again."

"Jesus," Justin says, rolling off the edge of the bed. "It's not like _I_ didn't spend the same time trying not to trip over the fuckbuddy of the night. We must really be messing with your routine this time out. I hate thinking about how many nights we've cheated someone out of the full just-got-offstage-need-to-screw-something Chasez experience because we kept you up working out problems."

It's only two steps to the door, and then he's out and away. With the one sane part of his brain, he almost marvels at how the two of them have always been able to go from sky high to snarling in a second, but mostly, he just hates how JC can make him feel like he's still twelve.

The blinds are up in the lounge but they're on an interstate and tinted windows block what little light there is. Justin finds the extra blanket stashed under the couch by feel and rolls himself in it. The couch isn't quite long enough to stretch out but it's not a long haul tonight. He can last until they stop next.

"Fuckbuddies are nice, but sometimes it's better alone," JC says from the small hallway and Justin's breath stutters in his lungs. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, but he still can't see JC, only hear him, his voice low and smooth and intimate.

"C--" he starts, but JC ignores him.

"No hassles. No one to worry about. Everything exactly the way you like it, fast or slow, hard or soft." The voice fills the small room, circles Justin, tangles him in possibilities. "How do you like it, J? When it's just you?"

Justin doesn't answer, can't, but doesn't even try to stop his hand from moving, rubbing slowly, low on his belly. It makes only a whisper of sound, but JC hears it, laughs softly.

"Yeah," he says. "Like that."

The darkness presses against Justin, makes a bridge that lets JC's words settle over him as light and soft as a spiderweb, silky smooth and deadly. "Slow tonight, then," JC's saying. "No rush, we've got hours, nobody but us here."

Justin closes his eyes and slides his hand under the soft, worn cotton, drifting lower, lower, and the blanket around him smells like JC, he's wearing JC's clothes, and he's already hard from JC's voice; heat and want and need spiraling out from his dick before he even wraps his hand around it, before he drags his thumb across the head, before the calluses on his fingers scrape a little too harshly over the base.

"It's so good when it's like this," JC murmurs. "When all you have to do is make yourself feel good."

Justin can almost believe it's someone else's hand stroking his cock, teasing his balls, jerking him off slow and lazy, exactly like JC's telling them to, can almost believe it's JC touching him. He bites back a moan at how much of a turn-on that is, thinking about JC's hand fisting him hard.

"No," JC breathes. "Let me hear you, just like you're alone."

"Fuck," Justin gasps, because he's _not_ alone, and he wants to know what JC is doing, whether he's leaning against the door or if he's jerking himself, too.

"Oh, yeah, baby," JC hums, and Justin groans at the sudden memory of walking in on JC and Bobbie in the shower years and years ago, Bobbie on her knees, not quite sucking JC off, JC letting her tease him, saying low and hoarse, _yeah, baby, yeah, yeah_. It's been years since Justin's sucked cock, but he comes now with a hot, desperate rush, harder than he's come in a long time, comes wanting to be the one on his knees, JC's cock down his throat.

***

It's right at dawn when Gabe pulls the bus up to the hotel. Justin's out the door practically before the parking brake gets set. He snags a key from the front desk, barely waiting long enough to hear the room number before hurrying to the elevators, not caring if it looks like he's running. If it comes right down to it, JC's the one who ran first, disappearing long before Justin's heart had stopped pounding or his vision had cleared.

The shower in his room is big and glassed in and almost too hot but his shoulders gradually unknot and the tension in his face and neck eases off as the water beats down on him. He stays under the spray until the skin on his fingers prunes and his skin stings from the heat and he doesn't feel like he's going to jump out of his skin.

He wraps a towel around his waist, shivering as the cooler air outside the bathroom hits him. He'd thrown his bag half across the room as he'd stripped off his clothes on the way to the shower and before he gets to it, there's a knock at the door. When he looks, it's JC, a carefully neutral expression on his face and a Starbucks cup in each hand.

It's the expression that makes Justin open the door wearing only the towel. He's known JC far too long to miss the long-suffering attitude under the surface politeness and it punches buttons Justin thought Cameron had worn out a year ago.

JC's eyes flicker over him as he opens the door, but he doesn't say anything, only holds out one of the coffees. Justin takes it and the extra pack of sugar JC's holding under the cup and walks over to the desk to pry the top off the cup.

When he looks up from mixing in the sugar, JC says, "So, I figure we can play this one of two ways. Either it's one of those things that happen on the road, no harm, no foul, and life goes on�"

"Or?" Justin asks, sipping cautiously at the hot coffee, and enjoying the satisfaction he's getting from watching JC look everywhere but at him.

"Or we freak and it's this big _thing_ and everyone gets involved and it drags on for the rest of the tour."

"So, basically, we pretend it didn't happen or we--and by that you mean me, right? Or I can't handle it and flip out; go for the drama and make your life miserable?"

The first option's not all that far off from what Justin's been thinking--nothing's happened, not really. It's the road, weird shit happens, they can let it blow over. But hearing JC lay it out in that cool, detached voice, seeing him shrug like it's just one more thing he has to deal with--it's like a hammer beating on all those buttons he's been punching.

"Or we play it a third way," Justin drawls. He smiles as JC jerks his head up and stares at him. "No freaking out, but no walking away either."

JC stares at him for a long second. "You sure about that, J?" he asks, then laughs, short and sharp. "I never laid a hand on you last night and you couldn't run fast enough this morning."

Justin takes a long drink of his coffee, and if he hadn't been sure before, there's no way he's backing down now. JC's eyes are on him as he crosses the room, and Justin knows want and desire when he sees it. He takes the cup out of JC's hand, puts it on the dresser with his own.

"Yeah," he says, leaning in close enough to see the pulse beating hard under the curve of JC's jaw. "Now that I've thought about it, yeah, I'm sure."

JC's mouth is warm and sweetly bitter under his, coffee layered over toothpaste over JC himself, and there's no hesitation in his response. A tiny voice in his brain tells Justin to play it cool, take it slow, be in control for now, and he listens, but even so, he can't do anything about the way the blood pounds through his body or stop the slow shudder that follows in the wake of the hand JC trails down his back.

"Okay," JC says against his mouth. "We'll play it your way."

Justin can't read anything in his eyes, but his hand is still warm and heavy against Justin's hip, his thumb still tracing small circles that dip a fraction of an inch under the knot in the towel. He takes a step back and turns to go, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "Soundcheck at three," he says and slips out, the door closing quietly behind him.

***

Lance is the keeper of the interview schedules; he claims he's using a random number generator to determine who does what interview and how they're paired off, but no one's even mock-complaining this time out. Except for the big markets, they're not all having to show up together so it's a once-a-week obligation, at most. And with only two or three of them going to any one appearance it's always a different dynamic to goof off with. Except for dodging paparazzi in and out of the hotels and radio stations and venues and then not answering the same fifty questions about him and Cameron and steering the interview back to the tour, it's mostly fun.

Lance has the two of them down for Memphis, which is fine with Justin. He knows the morning drive team personally, so they won't be too obnoxious, and once the interview's finished, he's going out to hang out with Steven and meet his newest nephew until he has to do soundcheck.

Lance is dragging when he gets into the car, more than the usual settling into the tour adjustment.

"Allergies," he says, waving off Justin's offer of bottled water. "Slept like crap last night."

"Gotta love Memphis in the spring," Justin answers. "But, shit, you should have gotten somebody else to do this."

Lance sneezes, but says, "I'll be fine."

"No, man, c'mon, you know C's awake and down working out, let me call and--"

"No," Lance answers sharply, and it suddenly hits Justin that Lance hasn't scheduled him to go out with JC since the first couple weeks of the tour.

"We're fine," he says quietly, mindful of the driver and the label PR flack in the front seat.

"For now," Lance answers, equally as quiet. "But the whole thing isn't the best idea and the rest of us would rather not have to worry about when you suddenly won't be. At least this way, we know it won't be on-air somewhere."

"We're fine; this is fucking _stupid_," Justin snaps, pulling his cell out of his pocket and asking the driver to hold up a second. JC answers on the second ring and says he'll be right out and between the two of them, they half-shove Lance out of the car. JC's tight-lipped and Justin would love to be a fly on the wall when he goes off about this one, but he can't blow off his family and by the time he gets back, everything's been dealt with.

***

Kelly is splitting time between Florida and the tour; she's been gone long enough that Joey's bus is comfortably rumpled and cluttered, jeans and socks and t-shirts scattered everywhere. Justin clears enough space in the refrigerator to wedge his contribution to the night's festivities in alongside the guacamole and salsa and passes Chris a beer before he slides into the last seat at the table.

"Five card draw," Chris is saying. "Nothing wild, none of that pretty boy Texas TV shit, just my cards and your money."

Justin glances at his cards and lets Lance start the bidding. Strictly speaking, they don't have to do the long hauls by bus these days, but sometimes it's easier not to interrupt the rhythm of the tour to fly. Plus, Joey is a sucker for a tradition and poker nights date back to when a night in the single was worth at least a hundred marks of actual paper money and Justin always tried to trade his winnings for a club night.

JC wanders in from the back, squeezing in between Joey and Lance and Justin keeps his attention on his hand. Almost every night now, he and JC are ending up on whichever of their buses is closest as they leave the venues. No conversation, no lights, only hands and mouths and skin salty and heated from the stage.

Sometimes during the day, Justin turns around and catches JC watching him, and it takes every trick of performing that Justin knows not to show the need that shudders through him no matter who might be around. He's done it himself, too--at soundcheck, when JC's slouched against a speaker, waiting for the cue; at more than one hotel fitness center, when he's on the treadmill, sweaty and pissy because he hates it but doesn't have any other options; in the Quiet Room, when he's stretched out on a couch, working up to his full show routine--and seen the flicker of recognition in JC's eyes, but the days, so far, are only for looking.

Justin's not sure whether this counts as day or night. He studies his cards carefully and ignores the long line of JC's throat when he leans his head back against the wall and smiles at Joey.

Lance pushes a stack of chips into the middle of the table. Chris eyes his own messy pile thoughtfully, saying, "Either the boy toy's forgotten the lesson I taught him the last time he tried to bluff--"

"Or there's some sweet sweet lovin' waiting for him on his own bus and he's politely blowing the rest of us off by dumping his money so he can get back to it," Joey interrupts.

"My mama always told me to be polite," Lance drawls, smiling benignly. "And Jeff is a patient man--I have no idea what I'm doing wasting time with you morons, but there's always the possibility that I'm holding the greatest hand in the history of poker night." He leans back and crosses his arms. "That's a thousand to you, Joe."

Joey grunts and folds; Justin's hand wouldn't even work for Go Fish. He tosses his cards in the center and watches Chris go through the internal debate that always ends with a call no matter how much money's at stake or how shitty Chris's hand actually is. He can't walk away from a dare and Lance knows it.

Justin isn't surprised when Lance turns out to be holding a royal flush or when Chris rallies and ends up cackling more and more loudly as the night progresses, and especially not when JC falls into step with him as he walks back to his own bus.

What does surprise him is the teasing brush of lips and tongue along the back of his neck, the warm, easy glide of hands under his t-shirt. Slow, lazy, and no excuses this night; nothing urgent, nothing frantic, only the slow heat uncurling low in his belly.

He can take his time and tease back; taste the curve of neck into shoulder, bite not quite gently along the same path. He can drink in the quiet, shuddering breaths when he licks deep into JC's mouth, and then lie back and try not to whimper as that mouth moves over him, each kiss laying claim to him, marking him, until there's too much laid bare and he has to pull away.

JC lets him curl into himself, murmurs to him, soft fragments of words and sentences too quiet to be understood over the sudden pounding of Justin's heart, his warmth reaching across the distance he's careful to keep between them.

In the end, it's the warmth that pulls Justin in, or maybe it's just that he wants to pretend for a little while and he knows, surer than almost anything else in his life, that JC won't mind. All he has to do is let go of the tension and JC's there, curved around him, solid and real.

"Do you want this?" JC's voice is still soft, but his mouth brushes Justin's ear as the words fall into him.

"Yes," Justin answers, before he can run again, because he does, so much. "Please," he whispers, and then gasps softly as JC's hand skates down his body, dancing lightly across the head of his cock.

"Please," he says again, more strongly this time, and again when JC presses not quite into him. He tries to say it once more as he rocks back into the first hard thrust, but all that comes out is a wordless moan that blends seamlessly with the small noises JC is making.

He says it over and over in his head, out loud, whispers it, maybe howls it as JC fucks him carefully, deliberately, but even after JC wraps his hand around Justin's cock and says, "Come for me, now, J, now, now;" even after JC cleans them up and curls back around him, his breath warm and rhythmic, lulling Justin into a half-doze, even then Justin's not sure what he's asking for.

Pale morning light is leaking around the blinds when JC presses a kiss to the back of Justin's neck. "This wasn't a good idea. I'm sorry," he says, and slides away. It's not long after that bus slows smoothly to a stop and then pulls back out. Justin moves out to the couch in the lounge, sleeping fitfully and ignoring his cell until they're pulling in to the next hotel and he has to pay attention to his life again.

***

Dinner with Kelly and Joey when Kelly's on a roll is one of the funniest ways Justin knows to kill a couple of hours. Add Jeffrey and Lance to the mix, and even if they are eating mediocre hotel restaurant food and Justin is the literal fifth wheel, he still has to make himself stop laughing so he doesn't choke when he swallows.

He's still laughing when JC walks into the restaurant with Chris. Keeping the tour sane and even has been both easier and harder than he expected it to be. Easier because JC seems to want things to work as much as he does; harder because he can't believe how often he has to remind himself that things have gone back to how they've always been.

Chris nudges JC, and they stop and say hi, but it's only a detour because they're heading for the table in the back, the one with the tall Italian in the crisp-pressed button down and the embroidered jeans and flip flops. _Marco_, JC had introduced him earlier, during the first few stops on this tour, _an old friend_. Justin remembers him from early in the hiatus, remembers seeing them together and thinking they clicked in a way that most of JC's relationships didn't.

"Something I should know?" Joey keeps his voice down, but if he's lucky, Justin only has one shot to convince him that everything's okay before Kelly picks up on the conversation and he ends up having to explain something he has no explanation for.

"Probably not," Justin answers, and that's not what he meant to say. He takes a deep breath and puts on his best game face. "We're good."

Joey leans back and casually glances at the other table and then back at Justin. "Yeah," he snorts. "Does the timeshare sales presentation start now, or do we have to wait for the rest of the group to join us?"

Justin glances over at Kelly, but she and Jeffrey are deep in their favorite argument of whether Jeff owes Kelly for harassing Lance to the brink of insanity about not letting Jeff back off because of the age difference, or whether Kelly owes Jeff for retiring and passing all his clients over to her. Lance hasn't noticed anything, mostly because he's arguing the point that they both owe him, so Justin shrugs and says, "We've been through worse." He meets Joey's eyes steadily, willing him to drop it.

"Okay, J." Joey can't bluff worth shit, even if he can keep up a good front in public. "If you say so."

He turns back to the conversation and leaves Justin alone so that he can resolutely not watch JC tasting Marco's wine or the way he leans close to listen, ending up with the big smile, the one he's never lost over the years.

***

The last thing Justin expects for the weekend before the tour ends is to be sitting next to JC in a Vermont emergency room, watching Chris wear a path in the already battered linoleum. Then again, the whole trip's been surreal, right from Chris sticking his head in the Quiet Room in the Garden to say, "U.S. Open--you up for a road trip, Timberlake?" to finding himself riding shotgun in a rented SUV with Chris at the wheel and JC sprawled in the back seat to standing on the half-pipe course with Chris, watching Kate launch her final frontside twelve-sixty and knowing with a sick certainty that she'd caught an edge and wasn't going to land clean.

Justin's used to the Chris who talks his way through everything; the more serious the issue, the faster the words flow. This Chris hasn't said more than ten words since they worked their way through the crowds and down the mountain and the unnatural quiet isn't doing anything to de-stress the atmosphere. Justin glances at JC, but he only shrugs in that "It's Kirkpatrick, what do you want me to do?" kind of a way and keeps watching Chris.

"Cranston?" The doctor's voice cuts through the low hum of conversation in the waiting room.

"Yeah," Chris answers, roughly in unison with a tall guy about Justin's age.

The doctor's a dour New Englander who takes in Chris's multiple earrings and the other guy's ink with a bored glance. "And you are?"

"That would be her coach," Chris says, pointing. "And I'm the guy who holds her medical power of attorney, so you're talking to us both."

Justin ducks his head to hide the completely inappropriate grin at the snap in Chris's voice. He can see the echoing ghost of the same smile on JC's face.

Under the cover of Chris's rapid-fire questions, JC leans back and says quietly, "Okay, while he's occupied, I'm going to call Johnny and see how much time we can buy."

Justin nods; there's no way they're even going to try to make their scheduled flight. "I'll get Lance and Joey up to speed," he answers. "They can cover what they can and think of something to do with everything else."

The rest of the day blurs together into one never-ending phone call punctuated by bad coffee and stale pastries, until JC finally cracks and ventures out to bring back three of everything from Starbucks.

"I don't know what time it is, but you know Chris needs coffee," JC says, and Justin volunteers to take some into where Chris is hanging out with Kate, waiting for a room to open up so she can be admitted. He finds them easily enough, but luckily, he doesn't just barge around the curtain because Kate's saying, "Jesus, Kirkpatrick, now what do I do? This knee is fucked."

Her voice is low and miserable, but Chris answers exactly like Justin expects, sharp and no-nonsense. "What you do best, Mary Catherine. Kick ass and take names and don't even look at me in that tone of voice, my ass knows goddamn good and well that you can do that with one leg tied behind your back, so what's a little knee surgery between friends?"

Justin hears Kate laughing as he backs away, and when JC raises his eyebrows at Justin's full hands, he shrugs and repeats the conversation. JC steals a slice of blueberry cake and says thoughtfully. "That's, yeah, good. You know how Chris is about being needed."

Justin nods. "They've already reached the power of attorney part, you think he's still gonna flake out and screw things up?" He thinks about what he's said and can't help laughing. "Okay, right, stupid question, but yeah, he does do better when he can take care of things."

JC grins and licks cake crumbs off his fingers and Justin should look away, _now_, but his skin remembers the lush heat too well. JC's smile fades and Justin mentally kicks himself for breaking the first easy conversation they've had since JC left his bus in the middle of the tour.

"What's Johnny got for us?" he asks, and he thinks he's got the right tone.

"He's working on a charter out of Logan; we have to get off the ground by seven in the morning to make it." JC echoes his casual tone. "I was thinking that if you sleep now, I'll hang out with Chris. We should leave here by four; you can drive and I'll sleep then, because there is no way we're letting a hopped-up Chris behind the wheel."

"Amen," Justin answers. "Think we can score something to knock him out while we have to be in the same enclosed space with him?"

"I heard that," Chris says, flopping down on the couch and grabbing at Justin's coffee. JC passes him the bag of muffins and scones and Chris almost purrs. "Caffeine and sugar, come to daddy," he mumbles through the half of a lemon muffin he shoves in his mouth. "Shit, did I eat anything today?"

"Long day," JC says, between bites, filling Chris in on the travel stuff. "What's going on from your end?"

"They're moving her up to a regular room and while they recognize that I am a valuable source of emotional stability, I am not welcome while sponge baths are being given. I'm supposed to rest and regroup and let my own support system--that would be you two, god help us all--take care of me so that I can return refreshed and continue to support my loved one through the healing process and I hate to hurt your feelings, but these," he waggles the bag of pastries, "these do not match up well with baths of any sort, especially not ones that skip all the bubbles and hard surfaces and get right to it on a bed."

Chris finally stops and takes a breath, but Justin knows he's just getting started and it's actually kind of a relief to have the regular Chris back.

"Damn good thing I did get out here though, because now that I've uncovered your evil plan, you should know that I'll be expecting only the highest quality in sleeping aids. I have standards, you know; I'm counting on the two of you to get the good shit, top of the line, nothing generic."

"Absolutely, cat," JC says. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Chris breaks into a semi-obscene rendition of Dionne Warwick; JC waves Justin off and hits the harmonies. Justin rolls his eyes and tries to find a couch that isn't ridiculously short. It's the end of a tour; he can sleep on concrete if he has to but his back has taken to reminding him he's not fifteen anymore and he still has to get through a couple hours in a car with the Bobbsey twins.

***

"Damn, it, Kirkpatrick." Justin slaps Chris's hand away from the satellite radio and turns the music off. "Ice. Snow. Southern guy driving."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, it's a damn Land Rover. It can handle the whole _inch_ of snow we've gotten no matter who's driving. I told you both that you driving was a stupid idea," Chris says, but the tattoo he's beating out on the dashboard kills the innocent effect he's going for. "And don't think I'm not telling Bass you turned off Faith," he continues. "He'll get C to bat his pretty eyes and have Tim kick your ass for dissing his wife."

JC grunts from the back seat, but he's breathing deep, almost snoring so Justin's not even sure he heard anything for real. In the pre-dawn darkness, Chris half-settles into the passenger seat. His leg is still bouncing and he's tapping out a crazy rhythm on the car door, but it's only a little over what passes for normal.

After twenty miles, Justin figures it's about time for an external distraction. He's about to offer up the GPS when Chris says, "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

When Justin glances over at him, Chris is looking straight ahead, as if fascinated by the twisting and curves their headlights are picking up.

"We hung out for a couple of months, just because, hell, I don't know, she thought I was more funny than old. Even after she got rid of the dipshit she was with and it was less hanging out and more screwing around, it was no big thing and now, _fuck_, I swear to God I nearly lost my lunch fifteen times today."

"It happens like that sometimes," Justin says. "Everything's there and it clicks."

"Yeah?" Chris says and his voice is tired and right on the edge of hoarse. Justin hopes he can be convinced to sleep or the last two shows are going to be rough. "You listening to yourself there, J?"

He doesn't blush much these days, but he can feel the heat climbing his throat and face.

"Look, I'm too tired to bullshit around here," Chris says. "I don't know what the hell went down and I really don't need to know details, but I'm willing to bet my share of the gate off this tour that neither one of you has actually stopped and thought about it either."

"Shut up, Chris," JC says from the backseat.

"I fucking rest my case," Chris answers. "I'm gonna sleep now; try pulling at least one head out of an ass and pretend like you're not both total morons."

He closes his eyes, and Justin thinks he actually falls asleep after a bit. Justin knows JC's breathing well enough to know he's still awake, but they make the rest of the way to Boston in silence. The Arista plane is waiting for them; there's enough space on it that no one has to talk to anyone. The cabin steward wakes them all right before they touch down in Orlando and it's time to kick it into gear for the final two shows.

***

Justin doesn't have to look back to know JC's following him. Across the lobby to the elevators, and down the hall past JC's room, and the only thing that's surprising to Justin is that his hands aren't shaking as he digs the card key out of his pocket. All night, he thinks, pushing the door open and dropping the key on the small table. He's wanted this all night, through every song, every encore, every time he hit the dance floor at the after-party, every time he stopped himself from drinking anything but water.

He toes off his sneakers, then pulls his t-shirt off and drops it carelessly on the way to the bedroom. JC's right behind him, stepping away only to go through Justin's duffel, finally upending it before finding the strip of condoms and dropping it on the bedside table.

He steps close and catches Justin's hands in his own, moving them away so he can unbutton Justin's jeans, push them down and off. Justin kicks them away and lets JC look at him, lets JC see how hard he is, how much he wants this before he turns away and crawls onto the bed.

Before he can think of all the reasons why this is such a bad idea, JC is there behind him, warm and solid, covering him, anchoring him, reminding him of all the ways it's right. He arches back and hums low in his throat as JC shivers against him, and then gasps as JC pushes two fingers deep inside him.

"Oh, fuck, J," JC whispers, his mouth hot and greedy along the top of Justin's back, the base of his neck, the side of his throat. "You take that so easy, so smooth."

JC comes back with three and Justin groans, dropping his head to the mattress as the pressure burns through him.

"C'mon," he growls, pushing back hard against the cold, slickness of JC's fingers twisting rough and nasty inside him. "Do it, do it, stop fucking teasing."

"Oh, baby," JC says. "I haven't _started_ teasing yet." His voice is low and rough though. Justin hears the need in it and knows it won't be long.

It's smooth and relentless when it happens, just a little faster than Justin's body can take easily, so that he's shaking and whimpering by the time JC stills, buried deep inside him.

"Justin?" JC's voice is all edges, sharp and raw, until Justin drags oxygen into his lungs and stutters out, "Go, go," and then it smooths down into a quiet hum and JC starts moving.

Justin's not going to last, not with how JC's holding his hips high, the way he's forcing Justin's thighs wide apart with his own, how every stroke is right _there_, again and again and again, but it's not going to matter because JC is already there. Justin can hold it together long enough to feel JC lose it, to hear JC say his name again, raw and uneven, and then nothing's holding him back.

***

There's no wake-up call for tomorrow, no place that he has to be. There's a flight to LAX in the evening, but it'll be there another day, too, if he can't be bothered to catch it. There's no need to rush or hurry; he can take his time, let his body savor the long trip back to even breathing and a calm heartbeat. JC is sprawled out next to him, taking up a ridiculous amount of space for a single person, but Justin's too mellow, too fucked out to find the energy to be even marginally annoyed. He could stay like this, pretend this is how things really are, but that's not going to make the real world any easier.

Jeffrey is ready to swoop in and whisk Lance off to someplace tropical--and knowing Jeff, clothing optional. Joey's announced that there is a floating lounge chair and a bottomless margarita glass with his name on it and that he won't be answering calls for at least a week. Chris is probably already on a plane back to Vermont.

"Shower," he mumbles, rolling off the bed and dropping that train of thought. If JC answers him, he doesn't hear it; the rush of cold air and the warm body sliding up next to him under the spray jolts him out of his stubborn, deliberate attempt to keep his brain empty.

The hotel shower gel is citrus; sharp and clean and energizing even without the extra charge of JC's hands slipping and sliding over his skin or his mouth, teasing and lush on Justin's. Justin's tempted to let it go on like this, let whatever might happen, happen, except he needs to stop being a day player in his own life.

"What's your schedule?" he manages to ask between kisses.

"Home," JC answers. "Sleep for a week, play with the dogs, maybe fish. Call Joey after a couple of weeks. See what Chris needs." His hands are still moving over Justin's skin, slick and slippery and distracting, but he asks back, "What's yours?"

"Unpack my house," Justin answers, thinking of the boxes stacked floor to ceiling. "Read some scripts. Listen to the stuff I've written lately and see if it really does suck as bad as I think it does."

He catches JC's hands in his own, stilling them, stopping the distraction. "Try to figure out this," he finishes, and it's easier than he thought it would be to say it.

JC twists his hands around so that their fingers lace together. "You want help with that?"

"I--yeah," Justin answers, but can't help asking, "Just like that?"

"Justin. We've been fucking for _months_."

"Oh, hello, Marco?"

"Not interested in figuring out anything other than the occasional hook-up." JC tilts his head up until Justin takes the hint and kisses him. "The third way sucked. Just my opinion."

"Yeah." Justin laughs, but he could just as easily be screaming. "It really did."

"Ok, so the fourth way," JC says, leaning in for another kiss. "For real."

Justin rests his forehead against JC's. "You sure?" he asks. "Because my 'for real' track record is--"

"No worse than mine, and I'm so fucking sick of it, J."

JC's eyes are dark and serious, and Justin nods slowly. "Okay," he says, and reaches around JC to turn the water off, brushing a kiss over JC's mouth to hush his complaint, stealing another one as he dries them off and steers them back to the bed.

"Okay," he says again once they're under sheets and comforter and he's wrapped himself as closely around JC as he can. "For real."

"Okay," JC whispers, and this time when the sun comes up, there's no reason for anyone to leave.


End file.
